


Seeking a Friend for the End of the World

by cakeby_thepound



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4542213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeby_thepound/pseuds/cakeby_thepound





	Seeking a Friend for the End of the World

**Seeking a Friend for the End of the World**

"Where's Carl?" Rick is doubled over in pain, and if the wounds and scars aren't enough, his face says exactly how much he's hurt. Not just from his brutal fight with The Governor, but the fact that we were losing everything. Hershel. The prison. Now, his son. Because I don't have an answer.

I stare blankly at The Governor, writhing around on the ground in his own horror. He's a dead man, and I know I don't need to put my sword through his head to guarantee that. He doesn't deserve a quick death. Not after everything he's done. So I go back to Rick's question. Where's Carl. "I don't know," I shake my head, grabbing his arm again. He needs me for leverage, but he seems to think otherwise. "We gotta get outta here," I tell him.

"I'm not leaving without him," he declines through a rapidly swelling jaw. He tries to wrestle out of my grip, but I won't let him. "I have to find him."

"You go back in that prison, you don't make it back out."

"It's my son." The scowl on his face tells me that he's serious, but he's also angry. And anger makes you stupid. Stupid gets you killed.

I can actually see his emotions getting the best of him, and I implore him to use his logic. "Why would Carl still be there?" The prison was in the process of burning to the ground, and the yard was getting more crowded by the second. Everyone we knew had either left or they were dead. Either way, they were gone, and we needed to be, too. "Look around, Rick. There's no one here."

He does exactly that, taking in the scene. The horrific scene, where we'd lost everything we had in a matter of minutes. And still, he snatches his arm from my grasp and heads for the courtyard. I watch him stumble for a moment, until finally, he's approached by more walkers than he can handle. He looks back at me for a second and we both know it. It's time to go.

"Carl got out," I nod, though I could never be 100% sure that was true. But I need to believe it. I need to believe more than I need Rick to. That'll be the only way I get us out of here. "And when we find him, he's gonna need his dad to be alive." I walk up to him and offer my arm for support again. I keep my katana in the opposing hand, and together, we head out of the prison and into the woods.

The short walk out of the yard is terrifying. Walkers at every turn, honing in on the smell of Rick's blood. I behead as many as I can, but it becomes increasingly hard to protect him and myself. As I work, he's just standing there, gazing back at the prison. "Stop looking back," I beg him, wiping my blade in the grass. "You can't look back."

"I can't stop," he answers hoarsely, his bloodshot eyes staring back at me sadly. "That's my son."

"Rick…"

"You're right," he nods slowly. "He's probably not back there. But what if he is?"

I feel my frown soften as my defenses begin to come down just a little. We're in a clear enough space to catch our breath, and it dawns on me how hard it must be to leave the place he last saw his son. He'd already lost his wife and his daughter there, nearly a year before. So it has to be hard to imagine Carl is out here, when all he had come to know was Carl being back there. It must feel like walking away from his family. "I get it," I promise him delicately. I rest my hand on his back, stressing the point that he can lean on me. "I understand what you're going through. But you have to move forward. No matter how bleak it looks, there's always something."

He finally takes my hand, willingly, and we limp our way out of the woods. Slowly. Like a death march. Both of us silently huffing and puffing towards the nearest neighborhood we can find. The further we get from the prison, the more I feel his weight. Or perhaps it's the weight of everything else. Either way, I feel it crushing me. Silently urging me to just give up. I want to stop. I also want to run. But then I look at Rick, wheezing his way through it, and I know I have to keep going. Carl was the only reason he hadn't given up yet, so he was going to be that for me, too. We would make our way through this for him.

It's near dusk when I finally find a place where we can settle down. It's an old barbecue joint, which means there's a possibility of food for our impending journey. But mostly, it's in an open area. Not hidden by a bunch of trees, where our line of sight would be compromised. Our fatal flaw at the prison. Here, if a threat is looming, we'll be able to see it coming.

As I begin to pull Rick toward our home for the night, I can feel him resisting. "We have to stop," I say, already knowing that he wants to keep going. As much as I understood that he was giving everything he had, he doesn't understand that I am too, and I don't have much left. Both of us are starving for rest. He wants to hide it and push on, but that was going to get us both killed. He's already on death's doorstep. Another mile or two, and he might just fall right in.

"But Carl…"

"You and I are useless to Carl right now," I say, practically dragging him along. "And if we keep going, we're not gonna make it."

"Just a few hours," he finally agrees, breathing heavily.

If he's agreeing, I know he has to be feeling exceptionally awful. So I pull him toward the shelter fast. Faster than my body really wants me to, but I need to sit him down. There are a couple of rocking chairs sitting outside the place, so I carefully sit him in one, watching for a moment while he slumps over in pain. I don't know whether my body or my heart is aching more. To see him like this, it has me a little rattled. He'd been my fearless leader for so long. Even when he wasn't all that fearless; even when I was too stubborn to follow his lead. But I'd always looked at him as someone I could count on if I ever needed to. But watching him turn to the shell of the man I've always known… it's devastating.

Still, I keep on trucking. That's what I always do. I start to knock on the wall of the restaurant and then the front door, waiting for a response. If walkers are here, I need to know about every single one of them. Nothing yet. So I do a quick perimeter check, running around back to make sure none are lurking, wanting to take me by surprise. Nothing there.

"I'll be right back," I tell Rick, hoping he knows that that means he needs to stay alert.

Nothing from him either.

Inside is quiet. It had obviously been looted already, probably many times over, which meant the likelihood of food was low. But I can see the bar from where I stand, and there are still a couple of bottles still sitting on the shelf. Odd. Booze was the first thing to go in my neck of the woods. That doesn't stop me from grabbing the bottle of scotch and adding it to my newly formed bag of supplies. Of course, only I would have a stash of supplies that contains only alcohol. But it would probably get us through the night better than anything else.

I cautiously head back toward the kitchen with my weapon drawn. There are a couple of dead bodies in there, but nothing else. No food. No water. I check through all the containers I can find, just to make sure, and still, nothing. I check the refrigerator, too. Just a lot of rotted vegetables. The freezer is empty. There are barely even any utensils left. At least no one will be robbing us in the middle of the night. We have, literally, nothing.

I go back out, prepared to bring Rick inside, but I'm surprised to find him already there. He's sitting on the floor with his legs outstretched and his back against the wood paneling of the wall closest to the door. His eyes are closed, so I move into the room quietly, just in case he's fallen asleep. I grab two chairs for myself, and prop them in front of the door, beside Rick. I sit down in one, let my feet rest in the other, and let out a quiet sigh. A shaky one. God, I'm tired.

"I'm not sleeping," he finally reveals after a few minutes of silence. I wonder if it was just as deafening to him as it was to me.

I look down at him, seeing the hole in his jeans where a bullet had grazed his leg. He would need some first aid for all his injuries sooner than later. "You should be."

"Can't," he retorts simply. "My mind is all over the place."

"All right then," I say, shifting out of my marginally comfortable position. I pick up the bottle of scotch I'd found and plop down on the floor next to him. "Take off your pants."

His black and blue eyes flash open, staring me down curiously. He seems both horrified and confused by my request. "What?" he croaks out.

"I just wanna make sure the hole in your leg isn't about to kill you."

"Oh." He lets out a small chuckle, but then shakes his head. "I'm fine."

"Don't make me do this," I start to beg, already feeling another argument bubbling to the surface. The way he keeps fighting me, you would think we were enemies instead of friends. Granted, we've never been especially close. No one is especially close to Rick. Or me, for that matter. But we've always trusted each other more than anyone else in the room. I don't know why that's suddenly changed.

"Do me a favor, Michonne? Just… don't try to take care of me."

I can feel myself frowning at him. I know he can't really help it – he's in a bad place. But so am I, and I don't get why he's pushing me away. "Fine," I say. I move so that I'm across from him, on the other side of the door. I bring the scotch with me, taking a long swig from the bottle until I can't take the taste anymore. It's never been my drink of choice, but anything will do right about now. The burn against my throat, the way it feels all warm going down, it's a welcome feeling right now. It's nice to feel anything other than sad. I sigh again as I let the liquor do its job.

"I didn't know you drank," he comments quietly, but seems to be avoiding my gaze.

I look at him anyway, waiting for him to notice. "Why wouldn't I drink?"

"I dunno," he says, finally looking my way. "You just seem so straight-laced and uptight, I guess."

"Me?" I quietly laugh at the notion – especially the fact that it's coming from Rick 'I'm Always So Goddamn Serious' Grimes. "Okay."

"That's funny?"

"It is," I confirm, still smiling. The alcohol is obviously getting to me, because there's nothing to smile about. "You want some?" I hold up the bottle.

He makes no mention of the fact that I make him lean over to get it. He just takes the bottle and swirls it around a bit before getting a big gulp for himself. Then another. And one more.

"I didn't mean for you to finish the shit," I joke.

With a small smile, he hands the bottle back to me, and then rests his head against his wall again. "I needed that," he says, closing his eyes. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me for every little thing I do, you know."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"It's what we do," I shrug. "It almost feels weird to have you thank me for small gestures."

"That's some odd logic right there."

"I know." In my head, I know what I'm trying to convey. When he thanks me, it feels like I've just done him a favor. Not something that a friend would expect of another friend. But I feel silly relaying all this to him, so I don't. I don't think we have enough alcohol for all the shit in my head.

"If you think I'm being impersonal, you can just say it," he eventually says, reading my mind.

"Do you think you're not?"

"I'm not sure I know what I am," he replies, chuckling. He has to know that he's been somewhat of a recluse since I've known him. We're very alike in that way. "I try. Or I  _tried_ , I guess I should say."

"You did," I agree, taking another sip of our dinner for the night. "You did better than me."

"Which isn't saying much…"

I rest my head against the wall as well, and turn my head towards him. It's getting darker with every minute, but I can still his face and all his pain. And his voice is so hoarse, it sounds like he's really struggling to speak. I can only hope the booze is helping him ignore some of this hurt. "Would you say we're friends, Rick?"

He looks up at me, his expression a bit blank, then looks back down. "Friends…" He holds his hand out for the bottle and catches it when I slide it his way. After another long sip, he sends it back to me. " _So no one told you life was gonna be this way…_ "

I can't help but laugh at his twang as he sings the popular theme song. And then I do the four claps, because… well, you have to. "Yeah, friends."

"Does it matter to you? If we're friends?"

"Not particularly," I shrug. "But the fact that you're avoiding this question is pretty telling."

He smiles in reply. "I don't know what we are, Michonne. 'Friends' seems extreme, doesn't it?"

"I don't know. I guess that's why I'm asking."

"I don't have friends," he confesses quietly. "Everyone I know now, they're either an ally or an enemy. But if this was the old world? And I wanted to go hang out at a bar? Would I call you? I don't know…"

That's fair. "That's fair," I say out loud. "We were put together by circumstance."

"We were," he nods. "But then, I trust you with my life. I'd trust you with my son's life. So what does that make you?"

"Trustworthy, I guess," I reply with a smirk.

"You are." He lets out a long yawn and then begins to cough as quietly as he can. As if I won't notice he's still on the edge of death. "But what do you think about it?"

"I think… given the fact that this is the most words we've ever said to each other consecutively, you're probably right," I decide with another shrug, attempting to relay my indifference. "But then, I feel like you're my only friend, aside from Carl. So what does that say about me?"

"You need more friends," he laughs. It's nice to see him laugh, even if it hurts for him to do it.

"I like Daryl," I admit, already feeling wistful as I realize I may never see him again. "He's a good man."

"He is."

It brings me back to when I met the two of them. How abrasive they were, and how much I liked it. How glad I was that they weren't completely full of shit. "I appreciate how you both threatened to kill me within five minutes of meeting me."

"And I like how you showed up at my doorstep and then refused to speak to me."

"Fair enough," I laughed. "I did do that."

"You did."

"I was scared," I acknowledge, though in a bit of a whisper. I'm not even sure he heard it, but I go on anyway. "I was on my own again, just after I'd gotten used to Andrea being around. I forgot how lonely it gets out there."

"Out here," he corrects me softly.

He's right. We're back in the wild. No more prison to protect us. "You still think about Lori?" Her name feels weird coming out of my mouth. I've never said it before. Never needed to. The way he looks at me says it was weird for him, too.

"I try not to," he finally concedes. He seems lost in thought all of a sudden. "But then it comes up, out of nowhere sometimes. When I pass her cell. Or passed," he inserts. "When I'm lying in bed and my ring catches the light or somethin'. I dunno."

I nod, but keep my eyes on the wall ahead of me. I know all too well exactly how he feels, and I don't want to face it. Not today. Another drink for me. "You know," I say, finally feeling good and drunk. "Everyone thinks we've slept together."

I can hear his head turn my way again. "Jesus," he chuckles. "Really?"

I nod again. "I've overheard people talking about it on more than one occasion."

"Why didn't you ever say anything to me?"

"Didn't think it mattered," I shrug. "It was kinda funny. Kinda flattering."

"Flattering?" he repeats, obviously surprised by my choice of words.

"Well it's better than hearing Karen say I seemed too angry to ever wanna have sex."

He laughs at that, which low-key offends me, but I don't say anything. "Well, it's not like I haven't thought about it," he admits once his laughter ceases. "You and me, I mean. Not you being angry."

"Yeah, I got it."

"But I have to have rules," he says. "If I was gonna lead those people, I had to set boundaries. Stay focused."

"You don't have to justify it to me, Rick. You don't  _have_  to be attracted to me, or anything resembling it."

"No, I know. But I am, so… that's how I justified it to myself."

"Understood," I say with my own yawn. I think the day has finally caught up with me, and all I want is to sleep the night away. I reposition myself so that I'm lying on the floor, facing Rick. He's still propped against the wall as if he's waiting for something.

"I can take watch," he declares, seeing my shift in positions. "I'll wake you if I see anything."

I nod and very quickly drift off to sleep.

* * *

My eyes pop open at the moment my dream turns to a nightmare. I had finally been reunited with my little peanut, Andre, and even the former love of my life, Mike. But as with everything in this world, they're taken away just when I've come to realize it's their faces I've seen. Back to reality. And reality is that you don't get to hold on to anything you love. Not your children, not friends, not even your grip on humanity or sanity. As I wipe my face of the sweat I'd worked up, I realize Rick is staring at me. He looks… confused.

"Was I talking in my sleep?" I ask, embarrassed.

"No," he answers lowly. "But your face… you looked upset."

I nod. "Sorry." He doesn't reply, but continues to look out of the window. I imagine he's had lots of time to think about his missing son while I was asleep. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to abandon him. "You okay?" I decide to ask.

It's his turn to nod, but he still doesn't look at me. "You?"

"I've definitely been better," I admit. "But I can take watch if you want."

"I'm all right."

"You really, really need some rest, Rick."

"I'm all right," he repeats, still focused on his window.

I sit up and decide to look out of my window, too. I figure he'll talk eventually. There's obviously something on his mind, and he's truly got no one else to share it with.

"Hey," he calls out to me. He sounds sad. I look over to him, willing him to continue. "What did you mean when you said you know what I'm going through?"

I think about this for a moment. Do I want to tell him? Do I want to make him think about the fact that I've lost a child? And not just temporarily, but forever. My baby's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it. He's already going through so much. He's so consumed in his own grief. Why compound that? Why even share it when he's likely too sad to care anyway? Who does that help? "Nothing," I say. "I just… can imagine how you feel."

Silence. Again. His breathing has gotten quieter, and after a few minutes, I wonder if he's finally fallen asleep. But then he speaks again, his voice just above a whisper. "It's probably better this way," he intimates.

"What?" I frown, unsure whether I heard him correctly. And if I did, what he's talking about.

"Carl," he goes on. "It's almost a relief. I don't know." He's shaking his head while his body rocks back and forth. "I can stop feeling like I'm constantly failing him."

"Rick, stop."

"I'm serious. Maybe he's in a better place. Either on this planet, or somewhere else. And maybe it's better, in some small way, that I'm not there to fuck it up."

"Stop it," I demand seriously. "I don't wanna hear you talking like this."

"It's what everyone's been thinking."

"Not me."

"You don't pity me?" he asks, disbelievingly. "I don't buy it."

His demeanor is so different. He's gone from understandably dejected to a weird cynicism, and I don't like it. I guess the buzz wore off. But it still doesn't excuse him from the way he's acting. The last thing I want to do right now is sit in a room with a pessimistic asshole. "I'm gonna get some air," I tell him, not waiting for his response. It's becoming stuffy in there.

I stand on the makeshift porch of this little restaurant, staring into oblivion. My dream has me on edge, because I can already feel the hallucinations coming. I can already feel Mike's presence. He's with me.

"What are you doing here?" I say out loud to him.

_Seemed like you might need me._

"I'm fine."

_You sure about that? It's been one hell of a day._

"To say the least," I sigh. I glance back inside and can see Rick lying on the floor, finally getting some damn sleep. "I just wish Carl was here."

_Oh, okay. You lose your own son, but wish his kid was the one that was here. Okay._

"Don't do that. You know I miss Andre every day of my life. But I've come to terms with that loss; accepted that I'll never fully be whole again." I quickly wipe a couple of falling tears as I process my own words. "But he's already lost his wife and daughter. Already lost himself, in a way. I do really wish he had his son to help him through this. I wouldn't wish that loss on my worst enemy."

_And what do you wish for you, Michonne?_

I swallow hard, ignoring the lump in my throat. "I dunno."

_You do know._

"I don't," I insist with a sniffle. "I wish I could fix everything. But as far as tangible dreams go, I don't think I have anything. I just want to make it through another day."

_You don't want a home? A place to rest your head at night?_

"I had that, Mike. That's what the prison was, and look what happened. Maybe that was asking too much." I shake my head. I have to accept that I just don't have the answers. "Now? I just want to see tomorrow."

_That's all you want? Because you've been there. After me, before Andrea. I'm not so sure you were all that happy, just surviving._

"You're right," I cry, nodding my head now. Remembering all that time I was by myself, just me and them. Talking to myself, like I am now. No, it's not about just surviving. "I wanna live."

_And what does that mean?_

"I… I don't know. I guess it means finding a home," I have to allow. "It means building relationships. Being present. Being open to love."

_Which means being open to loss again._

I nod. I know that's my biggest fear. Befriending anyone at the prison on more than a surface level would've meant that I'd be a hell of a lot more heartbroken than I already am now. I'm not sure I'd be able to take it. "Yes," I eventually say.

_But you're afraid of being alone again._

"I'm afraid of hurting," I retort confidently. "Being alone comes with that… dull ache. And it doesn't go away like most wounds. It festers. It gets louder. More potent. It's the worst kind of pain."

_Then why are you out here? Alone?_

"He's asleep. We're useless to one another right now."

_There's nothing useless about being present._

That's true. Having the prison wasn't just about a place to rest my head. It was about knowing that there was someone next door. That even if we never spoke, we would have each other's backs. That I could wake up and hear the sound of laughter. People were present. "Fine," I relent and turn towards Rick. But I can feel Mike slipping away as I touch the door handle, so I quickly spin back to him. "I love you, Mike."

_I know you do. But it's time to let somebody else in now._

With that, I go on in, seeing Rick sprawled out on the floor, using a tablecloth as a pillow. I bend down to touch his forehead, noticing he's running a little warm. But then, it's pretty hot in here. I examine his face for a moment, hoping he doesn't open his eyes and catch me staring. But all his cuts and bruises fascinate me. I imagine that's what I'd look like if all my pain on the inside manifested to my face. What a scary thought.

I sit down beside him. Close, so I can see outside. "I had a son," I divulge quietly. I figure talking to him in his sleep is the easiest way for me to get this off of my chest. "He was three-year-old perfection, and I miss him every single day," I tell him. "And that pain is only amplified by the fact that I really did fail him. I wasn't there when he needed me to be, and now he's gone." My tears are falling again, but this time, I don't wipe them away. They need to get out, finally. "So I really do understand how you feel, Rick. And I'm sorry I made you leave. But it was either that, or we die. And I don't think I'm ready to die yet.

I was ready," I say, just as the epiphany comes to me. "I didn't know what I was going to do after losing Andrea. But then, you gave me a home. You gave me a reason to not give up yet. And I guess that's why I trust you so much. Just on a pure instinctual level. Before I knew who you were, or any of your story, I just felt like you were a man I could stand behind. Beside?" With a sigh, I begin to run my hand over his hair. "You're a good man, Rick. You haven't failed anyone. Carl is out there, and we're gonna find him."

I hope.

I hope we find everyone else, too. They have to be out there somewhere. Glenn and Maggie and Beth are maybe just around the corner. Tyreese and Sasha probably went in the other direction, but they're alive. And I bet Daryl and Carol got Carl out. They're probably camped out on the top of some truck, eating snake and squirrel for dinner. But they're fine. And we're fine too, me and Rick. We're starving, sure, but I enjoyed what we had. And tomorrow, we'll leave this place, and we'll figure it out. We'll rebuild. A home and ourselves. We'll be okay.

I sit there for a while, just thinking happy thoughts. Where we can go. Up north may be the answer, if we can do it. Maybe once it gets cold again, so the walkers will have slowed down a bit. I wish they just froze altogether, so we could taken them all out before they thawed. "That would be awesome," I say out loud with a small smile.

I notice Rick's hand twitch out of the corner of my eye, but I don't think much of it. Until I hear him wheezing again. He sounds so uncomfortable. I try to stroke his forehead again, hoping that will calm him, but his wheezes turn to groans. And then his arm goes up slowly, as if he's reaching out for something. It's very reminiscent to reanimation.

"Rick?" I say, hoping to wake him. But he doesn't say anything. I'm not sure if he can through his jagged breathing. But I quickly back away, because I'm not sure what's happening.

As I pull out my knife, just in case, I have flashbacks of when I had to do this with Andre. How fucking sad I was. I had to stab my baby in the head and then walk away. It was the worst moment of my life. And now, this is coming in at a close second. I cover my face with my arm as the tears come flooding down, me realizing what's going to have to happen. I don't know whether I'd rather use the knife on Rick or myself. I'm not sure I can lose the last person I know on earth. I can't be alone again.

"Don't do this," I start to beg him, seeing that he's inching toward me. He's barely at a crawl, but I know what's coming. "Rick." I want to scream, but I don't. I just cry. Hard. "Please, don't do this." I back away from him as far as I can, until I've hit the bar. My hand is shaking so hard, I drop the knife. I can't do this. I won't. "I need you, Rick."

He's still on the floor, his eyes now locked on me as he slowly makes his way to the bar. I drop to the floor, eyes squeezed shut, ready to just let him take me with him. But then he speaks. "Find Carl," he croaks out softly, followed by a loud thud.

I open my eyes to find him passed out. It's silent again. As if none of it even happened. With a deep breath of relief and my tears still falling, I crawl towards his unconscious body. I put my hand on his chest, just to feel his heart beat for a moment. To make sure that he is, indeed, alive. And so am I. I let his head rest in my lap, and I hold his face as I nod thankfully. Who I'm thanking, I don't know. God? The universe? Mike? It doesn't matter. We're okay.

"We're gonna find him," I promise with a whisper. And we're gonna be okay. "Just stay with me."

-End-


End file.
